


Epoch

by Quakey



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Plotfic, Secrets Revealed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quakey/pseuds/Quakey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Karen starts receiving mysterious phone calls from an unknown number, her house of cards comes tumbling down around her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Daredevil fandom! I've been consumed by this OT3, so I just had to write something. I hope you like it.

The first call comes on a rainy evening.

The lights are on; her television is muted but playing something colorful. The curtains are shut, because there's a weird guy with a beer gut living in the opposite building who stares unabashedly when she opens her window, but otherwise the apartment is as bright and cheerful as she can make it.

It's stupid. Karen knows that. But something about the rain - the sound of it lashing against the glass, the way it cuts her off from the rest of the world - it always takes her back to the night she was creeping around in her apartment looking for the Union Allied file. She'd been cold, shivering, the rain dripping down her neck and into her shirt. The apartment had been very dark. Every long shadow on the wall was a threat.

Then one of them really _was_ a threat.

She still has nightmares about being thrown into walls while knives gleam in the darkness.

She turns on all the lights when it rains, now.

"Hello?" she asks, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder. She brings her knees under her and snags an afghan off the top of the couch.

No one answers.

"Hello?" she asks again.

When there's still no response, a sick feeling comes to her stomach.

She didn't recognize the number. She's alone, at night, in the same apartment where she's been attacked before.

"Answer me," she says, a bit too loudly, because there it is, there's the waver in her voice that always gives away her fear. She swallows hard and tries again. "If someone doesn't open their mouth and start talking, I'll send this number to the police."

There's the sound of - _something_ \- a breath, maybe, or a distant shuffle - and then the line goes dead.

Karen spends about five minutes sitting on her couch, knees curled to her chest, heart racing in time with the pitter-patter of rain on her windowsill.

Then she calls Foggy.

*

"Is this a booty call?" Foggy asks, the second he's through the door. Karen looks both ways down the hall before she shuts it behind him, turning the lock with a secure click. "Because I feel a moral obligation to share that things are actually going really well with Marci right now, so if you're only interested in me for my body - "

He shrugs, wiggling his eyebrows, letting his sentence trail off. He's absolutely drenched, hair hanging in strings and khaki coat almost brown from the rain.

At this moment, he's the best thing she's ever seen.

"Let me get you a towel," she says. He makes an 'after you' gesture, and she adds, "Nuh uh. No way. You stay right there and don't drip all over my carpet."

In the hall closet, however, she realizes she hasn't done laundry in awhile and doesn't have any clean towels at all. There's a robe hanging in her bathroom, but the thought of Foggy using it - wrapping it around himself like she'd done just that morning, his body where her body had been -

Well. She'll just have to find an alternative.

When she returns to the entryway, dish towels in hand, Foggy is exactly where she left him, standing studiously in a puddle and not making it any bigger.

"Nice," he says, spotting the towels.

"Sorry. It's laundry day."

"Liar," he says easily, accepting one and rubbing it over his face. "I bet you have no plans to do laundry at all. I bet all your lady things are just piling up in the basket - "

"Lady things?" she asks, amused.

"You know, bras and - uh - " He stops rubbing, dish towel squished over his left eye, apparently completely incapable of saying the word _panties_.

She decides to have mercy on him. "As a matter of fact, my lady things are all packed up and ready to go to the dry cleaner. Not all of us are willing to wear the same shirt with a mustard stain on it two days in a row - "

"Different shirts, _different shirts_ , and I just _happened_ to get mustard on _both_ of them - "

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry," Karen says, smiling at him, and he smiles back, that curve of his lips that always sends a slow warmth through her. He's still soaked, his hair falling into his eyes and little droplets of rain rolling down his nose, and she feels almost overcome with affection for him. "Thanks for coming out in this, Foggy."

"Hey, you need me, I'm here," Foggy says. Then he pauses. " _Is_ this a booty call, though? Because it's really kinda late, so if we have sexing to do - "

"God! No!" she says, and then they're laughing together, all her doubts vanishing with the sound. She made the right choice in calling him. She feels much better just by having him here, his presence somehow filling her entire apartment with the kind of light and humor she didn't even know she was craving.

She gets him settled on the couch with a cup of tea and one of her oversized basketball hoodies from eleventh grade. He looks absolutely ridiculous in it, and they pass some time debating the merits of varsity athletics, the rain and the shadows reduced to ambient things in the background. They talk about the firm's newest case, a cop accused of taking a bribe. They spend fifteen minutes arguing about bananas. They talk, for some reason, about Britney Spears.

After awhile, Karen stretches her legs, pointing her red toenails together. Foggy watches the movement without raising his head from the armrest.

"I don't think I've ever seen you dressed so casually before," he remarks.

"What?"

"The shorts," he says, gesturing. "The t-shirt. You're usually dressed to the nines."

Karen feels oddly warm, but she doesn't know if it's because Foggy notices her clothes or because Foggy is sitting two feet away from her while she has bare legs and messy hair. "I wear casual clothes," she says, a bit defensively. "I was in casual clothes the first time you saw me."

"Oh, when you were being suspected of murder?" Foggy asks. "That time?"

She takes a swat at him, but the movement only pulls the afghan off the couch.

"Whoops," he says. "Here you go." He picks it up and drapes it over her shoulders with a flourish, like a queen receiving a cape.

Karen reaches up and tangles her fingers in the soft fabric. She still feels a bit hot under the collar, but there's something else there too, a combination of good company and gratitude. "I really do appreciate it," she says. "You, I mean. Coming out here."

Foggy leans back on the couch. His posture is completely relaxed, but his eyes are keen. "You wanna tell me _why_ you called me?" he asks. "I don't mind, obviously, but if there's something bugging you, or if you wanna talk..."

She looks at her toes again. She needs to re-do her polish. "I got a phone call," she says. "Unknown number. No one on the other end of the line. I don't know, it might've been a prank call. It might've been nothing." She forces a laugh, her fingers clutching the blanket. "Maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my old age."

Foggy reaches out and gently places his hand over hers. "You're scared," he says.

She meets his eyes, his dear, kind eyes. "Yeah, I am."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm here, isn't it?" he asks, and pulls his hand back, stretching out fully on the couch. He puts his feet in her lap, and she rests a hand on his ankle, his pants still a little damp because he'd refused to let them air-dry with the rest of his clothes. _There are some lines,_ he'd said, _that shouldn't be crossed_. And then: _at least not without a lot of vodka_.

"You don't have to stay," she says, because she knows what he's doing, and there's still some small, polite part of her that wants to insist he go home since she's clearly blowing all of this out of proportion.

"I've spent plenty of nights on couches," Foggy replies. "College was crazy. Tons of girls. I watched Matt sleep with all of them while I spent the nights on the couches."

Karen smiles. "Was he really that bad?"

"God, don't get me started," Foggy says. His eyes drift shut, and she finds herself rubbing his ankle with her thumb. Somehow her hand slipped to skin without her realizing it. "Speaking of Matt," Foggy says, "don't let me sleep past seven, okay?"

"Seven am?" she repeats.

"He likes to be in the office by eight."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"It's raining," Foggy says. She cocks an eyebrow that he can't see, but then he adds, "Puddles, you know. He has his cane, but it slows him down when he has to tap around them before he can cross. No depth perception."

"Oh," she says, startled. "So you - "

"Just lend him an elbow."

The thought of Foggy waking up extra-early to help Matt across rainy streets does something to her that she can't explain. Especially since he's already trudged to her apartment in a downpour to soothe some of her craziness. "You're a really good friend, Foggy," she says, because she wants him to know that, to know that he's appreciated. She reaches out and gently combs his hair behind his ear.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

*

Karen wakes to an empty apartment the next morning, but there's a note on her fridge that says OFF TO HELP BLIND GUYS AND SAVE PUPPIES FROM MANHOLES in Foggy's horrible chicken scratch. She can't help but laugh, and her mood only improves when she throws open her curtains and sees the sun shining through a completely cloudless sky. The storm has passed. She even manages to wave at Mr. Beer Belly.

Once she reaches the office, however, she finds Matt and Foggy squaring off in front of her desk.

"Um," she says, closing the door behind her with her hip. "Coffee?" She has a tray of them in hand, strong ones, because she knows she'll need them and Foggy probably will too. She bought one for Matt as well, non-fat and sugar-free, because he's very picky. He says it's an assault on his senses when it's made too strongly or too sweetly. Matt can be intense about his coffee.

"Karen," he says now, stepping forward. He looks the same as ever, a sharp suit and a dark pair of shades, but his voice is concerned. "Are you all right?"

She looks at Foggy, who looks guiltily back.

_Goddamnit._

"I'm fine," she says, with a glare at the traitor.

"I was worried!" Foggy protests, taking the coffee tray from her hands. "I mean, strange calls in the middle of the night, that isn't something we should ignore."

"I'm _fine_ ," she repeats, this time to Matt. "I overreacted." She can't believe Foggy blabbed. God, it's _Matt_.

"You didn't overreact," Matt says, which just makes her feel stupider. "It was smart to call Foggy. But you should've called me too - "

She would honestly rather die than call Matt Murdock at two in the morning because she's having a freakout.

" - I could've helped you trace the number," he continues.

"It's untraceable," Karen says. "I tried."

"You did?" Foggy asks.

"After you fell asleep," she replies, and flushes a little, because it sounds weird in the daylight, especially in front of Matt's cool, dark gaze, the one that absorbs everything.

"Well, that's awesome," Foggy says. "Where'd you learn how to trace calls? Was it all the Nancy Drewing you've been doing recently? Can you teach me?"

"Can we focus?" Matt asks. His voice has just the slightest edge, nothing out of the ordinary after working together through all kinds of ups and downs, but Foggy's mouth snaps shut like a trap, his shoulders going tight and unhappy. He also stares at the wall in the distance like it's holding all the secrets of the universe.

Karen looks back and forth between them, Matt gripping his cane with forced casualness, Foggy's shoulders a line of tension.

The silence stretches.

"Matt thinks I shouldn't have left you alone this morning," Foggy says eventually. He still isn't looking at him.

"I didn't say that," Matt replies.

"It was implied."

"Foggy," Matt says, a quiet appeal. It isn't easy to read his face from behind the glasses, but he looks... tired. Karen knows their relationship has been waxing and waning ever since their fight. She's witnessed it, the odd, uncomfortable beats in what used to be a steady back-and-forth. She still doesn't know how to fix it, if they'd even want her to. There's so much history between them, jokes that she still doesn't get, threads of long-ago conversations that flow between them, stitching together something she used to think was rock solid.

"Please don't fight because of me," she blurts out. They open their mouths in unison, but she knows what they're going to say, so she barrels on. "It was nothing, okay? Just late-night weirdness. Probably a wrong number."

"Or a prank call," Foggy suggests.

"Or someone from Union Allied."

"Or Fisk," Matt says.

They both turn to look at him.

"We put him away," he says. His cane taps lightly on the ground, a rhythmic gesture. "We represented Hoffman. We hired the secretary from Union Allied. Any digging at all and he'll know that we've been targeting him for awhile. He could be going after us in retaliation. He could be going after _you_ , Karen."

Her heart beats furiously against her ribs. "I'm not afraid of Fisk," she lies.

The cane stops tapping.

"Well, I am," Foggy says frankly. "The guy's two steps away from becoming a supervillain. He's got money _and_ resources _and_ what I'm guessing is a pretty big vendetta against us - "

"He doesn't have money anymore," Karen counters. The words come on autopilot, which is good, because the only images playing behind her eyes involve seven gunshots and a jerking body, bullets ripping through a suit jacket, red blood seeping through a white dress shirt. "Owlsley - " she starts, but her mouth is so dry she has to stop and begin again. "Owlsley stole a bunch of it, remember? And then they froze his accounts on his arrest."

"He was still able to hire a bunch of men in black to help him escape custody," Foggy points out.

A sudden thought slams into her, and she grips the edge of her desk to keep from falling over, or throwing up, or both. "Do you think he'll try to escape again?"

Foggy looks stunned, but Matt's face could be made of stone. He isn't at all shocked or dismayed by the possibility of the most dangerous man in Hell's Kitchen escaping from federal custody and/or hiring his goons to harass her with phone calls in the middle of the night.

Karen grips the desk a little tighter. "How long have you been watching him?"

Matt doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "Awhile," he admits. "With one escape under his belt, I thought another was likely."

"Dude, thanks for sharing," Foggy says. "It's not like we're all in danger here. It's not like we would _care_ that Mr. Stay Puft might spring himself from lock-up and come stomping over our tiny little houses."

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," Matt says. His knuckles go white on the cane. "To either of you."

And he turns and strides to the window, putting his back to the room.

Karen glances at Foggy, expecting him to be looking back; they've perfected it, the art of wordless communication when the third member of their firm is being weird. But Foggy isn't looking at her at all. He only has eyes for Matt, and he's watching him with a strange expression on his face, one of the many that she doesn't understand anymore. "Let's not be rash about this," he says.

"I'm not," Matt replies. "I'm thinking logically. If Fisk is holding a grudge, he'll come after us. We need to be prepared."

"And then what?" Foggy asks, with a weird note in his voice.

Matt looks at the ground. Or - turns his eyes to the ground. He does that sometimes, when he's thinking particularly hard about something, and Karen wonders, not for the first time, if it's an ingrained habit left in him even after years of blindness, or if it's something that maybe all people instinctively do, turning from others to hide whatever would give them away with their gaze.

What she doesn't say is that it thrills her a little, that glimpse of his eyes over the rims of his shades. They're dark eyes, just as dark as his glasses, just as dark as they were on the night she spent in his apartment, sitting on his couch with the lights off but not feeling afraid, not when he was near.

Foggy fills her with light, but Matt makes her unafraid of the dark.

"I think we should be careful," he says eventually, and Karen realizes both she and Foggy had been waiting for that, for Matt to reach some kind of decision. "Karen, if you wouldn't mind, I think one of us should stay with you until we're sure you aren't getting any more phone calls. Or you could stay with one of us."

"Mi casa es su casa," Foggy says immediately.

"You're welcome at my place too," Matt says, ever the gentleman.

Looking at them both, Karen doesn't have the words to express what they mean to her, how she feels about the two of them standing between her and whatever lurks outside. Twelve months ago she was new to the city with no prospects and no real future. Twelve hours ago she was sitting alone in her apartment and jumping at shadows. Both of these times seem so distant now as she stands in a sunny office with what are probably her best friends in the world.

"Okay," she says, smiling and blinking a few times to hide the tears in her eyes. "Sleepovers it is."


	2. Chapter 2

"Okay, he definitely took the bribe," Foggy says.

"You can't say that," Karen reminds him. "You're his lawyer."

"Well, as his lawyer, I'm saying he's guilty. Like, his hand is in the cookie jar and it's full of bills, that's how guilty he is."

"I'd prepare different opening remarks for the jury," Matt says.

Foggy throws up his hands in an exaggerated gesture, one that gets even grander as he carries it all the way down, back eventually hitting the floor. "I thought we were only going to defend innocent clients from now on," he says to the ceiling. Then he turns his head and looks at Karen. "I realize they can't all turn into our beautiful secretaries, but - "

She pretends she doesn't feel a flutter in her heart, because that would be embarrassing, and Matt is sitting only a few feet away. "I don't know," she says. "I think Mr. Miller could work a dress."

"I'm not going to laugh," Foggy tells her. "That would be homophobic. How dare you, Karen."

Matt smiles behind his hand.

They're sitting on the floor of his apartment; how they wound up there, no one can really say, and Karen is especially not dressed for it, but she's kicked off her heels and rucked up her skirt so she can join them anyway. Dozens of papers, receipts, bank statements, and witness statements are scattered around them, and the remains of some Thai are knocked over here and there. Foggy has commandeered all the pillows for his back, but Karen has spent twenty minutes watching Matt slowly and stealthily inch one away from him every time he moves.

"I give up," Foggy says. "I can't take any more of this tonight." He climbs to his feet, putting a hand on top of her head for support; she makes a face at him and physically removes it. "I'm gonna go ahead and go to Marci's. Unless you want me to stay - ?" he asks Karen.

"It's fine," she says.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, absolutely," she says, lying through her teeth. She doesn't look at Matt. The past few nights have been spent at either Foggy's place or hers, but this is his standing date night with Marci, so she'll be staying with her other boss instead. Foggy had offered to cancel his reservation, and Matt had offered to spend the night at her place so she could be at home, but she hates the thought of inconveniencing them even more than she already has.

Of course, this means she has to spend the night with Matt.

Which she's totally done before.

But not when he was _Matt_.

"Go ahead," she says to Foggy. "Have a few daiquiris for me."

But there must be something on her face, or in her voice, because Foggy lingers. "What if you get another call?"

"What are the chances of that?" she returns. He doesn't look convinced, standing there with his hair tucked behind his ears and worry all over his face, so she forces a measure of cheer into her voice. "I really don't think I will. As a matter of fact, I'm starting to think it was a prank after all."

"Sure," Foggy says.

"Doubtful," Matt says.

"You are the worst friend ever," Foggy tells him.

"I just want her to be prepared."

"Maybe she doesn't need to be prepared. Maybe it was just a bill collector. Or a fever dream. Or an elaborate plot she made up to get into our bedrooms - "

"I didn't make it up," Karen says sharply.

Foggy closes his mouth mid-sentence. Even Matt turns his head her way. "I didn't - " Foggy starts, and then looks at Matt as though for guidance, but of course Matt can't see him, so Foggy turns back to her. "Hey, I didn't mean to - "

"I know," Karen says. She unclenches her fists. "I know, Foggy, I'm sorry. But it happened, all right? I didn't make it up."

"Okay," Foggy says. "Okay." He looks at Matt again.

"We believe you, Karen," Matt says. His voice is calm, and somehow, that calms her down too. She knows he's telling the truth. Matt has believed her when no one else has. There was a time she was sitting across from him at a cold interrogation table, blood still under her nails, and he still believed her.

"Well, I'm off," Foggy says, after a heavy silence. "I'll give Marci your - uh, not love - your vague acceptance?"

He looks questioningly at her, like he's wondering if he's allowed to go, and she nods, letting out a breath. "Have fun, Foggy," she says, determined to be normal.

"You too," he replies. His eyes rest on her face for a minute, and then his lips quirk, and he jerks a thumb at Matt. "Call me if he gets weird."

"Hey," Matt says mildly.

"You're a weird guy, buddy."

"Feel free to leave my home at any time," Matt says, and his tone is so fond that Karen finds herself smiling, all of the previous ugliness forgotten. _This is the way it should be_ , she thinks as Foggy waves at them and takes off, the door swinging shut on the beginnings of a whistle. _This is what matters._

Once he's gone, however, the apartment feels too quiet, too empty. Foggy has always filled the rooms he's in, and without him, there's nothing left but awkwardness. Karen looks around at their mess and shifts on her butt. Matt finally reclaims one of his pillows, and he sits cross-legged with it in his lap, still dressed in his day clothes but with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Karen smooths down her hair where Foggy messed it up.

No one speaks, and then they both do.

"Should I - "

"Do you want to - "

They stop, laughing at themselves. Some of the tension breaks.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to call it a night," Matt says.

"Sounds good to me," Karen replies. "If I have to read one more report of this guy's shadiness, I might actually scream."

"Yeah," Matt says, gathering a bunch of papers by touch. "Mr. Miller isn't an ideal client."

"He's been charged with six counts of police bribery, two counts of conspiracy, and I think the prosecutor might've thrown in an obstruction somewhere too. 'Not ideal' is putting it lightly."

Matt tilts his head to the side. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?" he asks. "Corruption."

Her first instinct is to say something flippant, something like _well, who actually enjoys it?_ But Matt is sitting across from her with hairy arms and a wrinkled shirt, and for some reason she wants to give him honesty. "I don't like people getting away with things," she says. She thinks of blindfolds, and Daniel's blood on her floor, and the way Elena's funeral had exactly three people at it. Then her imagination offers another image: seven gunshots and spreading bloodstains, the rising horror in her throat, a lump that still hasn't gone away. Sometimes it feels like she can hardly speak around it.

"Karen?" Matt asks. His voice has gone quiet.

"There's a reason I went after Union Allied," she says, and leaves it at that.

He lets her have the bathroom first, and she changes into her pajamas. After a moment of deliberation, she also washes her face and removes all her makeup. Who's going to see?

Looking into the mirror after she's done, Karen is struck by her reflection, a girl with flannel pajamas and bags under her eyes. She doesn't look like a killer. She looks tired, and worn down, and maybe even sad, but she doesn't look like she murdered a man in cold blood. She doesn't look like she has any secrets at all.

She wonders if secret keepers ever do.

She wonders if Matt misses looking at himself in the mirror.

When she comes out of the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and holding her overnight bag, she finds that he's changed clothes as well, soft pants and a matching t-shirt. Then she realizes he's groping around the floor for the trash. "Oh, no, let me help!" she says, hurrying over. How insensitive can she be, seriously? But he only smiles in her direction.

"It's okay," he says. "I think I got most of it."

"I'm sorry," she says. Thinking about his blindness in the bathroom while he struggles with his blindness outside the bathroom, Jesus, she is a piece of work.

"Don't beat yourself up over it," he says. When she glances at him, he's still smiling. "I was just about to make a three-pointer."

"What?"

In response, Matt lobs a crumpled-up piece of paper about six feet in the air, and it lands perfectly in the wastebasket.

Karen raises her eyebrows, impressed despite herself. "Okay," she says. "But can you spell 'horse'?"

A half-hour later, he's spelled horse, zebra, parakeet and hummingbird while she's spelled cassowary, kookaburra and wobbegong. Matt has apparently visited a _lot_ of zoos.

"My dad used to take me," he explains, taking aim for another shot. She shakes the wastebasket a little, ratting the paper inside, and he course-corrects. "We couldn't afford most of the city's attractions, but the zoo had half-price days, special deals for kids, that kind of thing. And then I lost my vision, and the zoo was one of the only places I could stand."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah," he says, and hesitates. "I couldn't... enjoy a lot of the things I used to. You know, after the accident. I was always reminded of what I'd lost."

She doesn't know how to reply. Sympathy? Understanding? She doesn't want him to think she's pitying him. "Was it very hard?" she asks tentatively.

Matt is silent for a minute, and then, to her immense surprise, he takes off his shades and puts them on the counter. She can count on one hand the number of times she's seen this, and never when he's dressed so casually. The effect is striking: Matt, relaxed in his home, without his suit, without his shades. Her and her pajamas. Their faces bare to one another.

"It was hard," he confides. "Especially when I could hear other people laughing, enjoying themselves, experiencing things in a way I couldn't experience anymore. But the zoo - that was always a vibrant place, even for a little boy with chemicals in his eyes. I couldn't see the animals, but I could still hear them. Monkeys hooting. Seals slicing through the water. Rhinos stamping on hard earth. Sometimes I'd even sit on a bench and become so still that I could hear the wings of birds fluttering through the air."

Karen is afraid to breathe. Matt's eyes are looking up, seeing nothing, or maybe seeing something behind them that she can't.

"And then, of course, there was the smell," he says, and smiles. "It was _pungent_."

She stares at him for a moment, then huffs a laugh. "I've never actually been to a zoo," she reveals.

"Really?"

"My parents were old money," she says. "I grew up in stockings and loafers. Animals were for dirty people." She pauses. "No offense."

"Um, offense taken," he replies, but he's grinning wide, and she grins back.

"Here, take this from me," she says, holding out the wastebasket. "I think it's time I show you what a real basketball player can do."

"Oh, you weren't being a real basketball player before?"

"I was holding back," she says. "Out of sympathy for your condition," she adds on a whim, and is pleased to see him laugh out loud. Foggy isn't the only one who can make blind jokes.

He reaches for the wastebasket, his hand slightly left of the can, so she puts it directly into his grasp. Their fingers touch. He's warm; he's always so warm; she's noticed that before, when she's touched his face, when she's taken his elbow, the warmth of his body apparent even through the fabric of his suit jackets. He seems to run hotter than other men.

Karen is suddenly keenly aware of the fact she isn't wearing a bra.

"Right," she says, a bit too forcefully. "What's my animal?"

"Xoloitzcuintli," Matt says, with a completely straight face. She sends the next paper ball hurtling at his head.

*

The room is nice. Not excessively large, but much bigger than the one before, and there's a window, and flowers on the bedside table, and it doesn't smell like antiseptic at all.

Karen adds a lily to the vase and wishes, for the millionth time, that she could do more.

"You're such a sweetheart," Doris says. "You don't have to keep visiting me. I know young people like you probably have better things to do."

"I don't mind," Karen replies. "The only better thing to do is work, and who wants to do that?"

Doris chuckles.

She always does, when Karen makes that joke.

"How are you feeling today?" Karen asks, pulling up a chair. "Has the nausea passed?"

"Oh, it comes and goes," Doris says. She pats her stomach, her movements a bit weak, but she doesn't seem bothered by it. "It would help if they didn't serve us such horrible food."

"What?" Karen asks, surprised. She'd been the one to help Doris pick this place, a hospice where she could rest another twenty or thirty years before Ben's life insurance maxed out. It was a little out of the way for Doris' remaining family, but it came highly recommended, and the menu was supposed to be one of its selling points.

Doris rolls her eyes and looks about a decade younger. "It's fine," she says. "Technically. It's just new-age, all of it. Vegan this. Organic that. Cook wouldn't know a real New York hot dog if it walked right up to him and squirted relish on his apron."

"Ah," Karen says. "You're one of _those_."

"Those?"

"Those New Yorkers who think their everything is superior," Karen says mischievously. "Best hot dogs in the world, best baseball in the world - "

"Another bad word about baseball and I'll throw you out," Doris warns, but she's smiling. She holds out a hand, and Karen takes it with both of hers, trying to infuse some warmth into the paper-thin skin. "Now, what's troubling you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You've got that look in your eye."

Karen squeezes her hand a little tighter without meaning to. Sometimes Doris is barely there, not remembering who she is or what relationship she had to Ben; there are some days when she doesn't even remember Ben is gone, and those are the worst, because Karen simply can't bring herself to break the news. There have been visits - long, excruciating visits - where Karen pretends that Ben is still alive, out chasing a story, living and breathing and going to bed and waking up to do it all over again, like he would be at this very moment if Karen hadn't gotten him killed.

Those are the days when Karen goes home and opens a bottle of bourbon.

"It's nothing," she says, and tries to mean it. "There's just some stuff going on at work."

"Don't lie to me, honey," Doris says. This is a good day. A day when she's still the whip-smart woman who was married to the city's top investigative journalist for thirty years. Sometimes these days drive Karen to drink even more.

But what is she supposed to say? She looks at Doris' face, the lines on it, evidence of love and laughter and kindness over a lifetime, things still there even when everything else is gone. How could she tell her? _What_ could she tell her? _There might be someone after me. I don't know what to do. I'm still not sleeping._

What would be the point?

"There's been some blowback," she says. "From Fisk's arrest. Some... consequences." She pets Doris' hand. "But we're dealing with them. It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Uh huh," Doris says.

Her face is completely inscrutable, her gaze patient and waiting.

Karen drops her eyes. "I... well, I'm not _sure_ , but I... I think there might be someone after me."

"What makes you think that?"

"I got a phone call?" It comes out sounding like a question, and she shakes her head. "I mean, I did get a phone call, but it wasn't... I couldn't trace the number. And they didn't say anything. My bosses, they've been great, they've closed ranks around me, but now I'm putting them out night after night because they want me to be safe, and I'm not actually sure safe is a thing I can be anymore." She stops, taking a shaky breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - I shouldn't be putting this on you."

"A burden shared is a burden halved," Doris says. She hasn't let go of Karen's hand the entire time. "Ben got himself targeted over the years. The first step is to figure out who's behind it."

"Fisk," Karen says immediately. "It's Fisk."

"Why him?"

"I work for the lawyers who took him down. I visited his mother and learned some of his secrets. I - " _Shot his lieutenant, killed him dead, left his body to decay in a warehouse, and it might still be there, it might be rotting with my bullets still inside him -_

"Well, then, you have your culprit," Doris says. "The second step is figuring out how to make him stop."

Karen laughs a little. It comes out sounding wet. "How am I supposed to stop _Wilson Fisk_?" she asks. "The guy has people everywhere, and he's already - he's already killed - " _So many_ , she wants to say, but the words stick in her throat as she gazes at Doris in sudden terror. She shouldn't be here. Oh, God, she shouldn't be here. She's turning Doris into an accessory, the same way she did with Daniel, the same way she did with Ben. And with Doris' condition - if someone were to question her on a bad day - if someone does what _she_ did with Fisk's mother -

Karen never learns from her mistakes. She never fucking learns.

"I have to go," she says, standing up so quickly that the chair clatters behind her. Doris' brow furrows.

"Honey, don't go, we can still - "

"No," Karen interrupts, voice shaking completely out of her control. "No, no. No. I'm sorry." Doris looks devastated, and the guilt is threatening to choke her, waves and waves of it moving through her like a sickness, like something evil inside of her that spreads to everything she touches. She reaches out and takes Doris' hand again, dropping a quick kiss on the back of it. "I'll be back next week. I promise. I just have to go now."

And she does, rushing from the room and leaving a frail old woman lying in bed behind her.

*

The next call comes at the office.

Mr. Miller is there, released on bail and awaiting trial, and Matt and Foggy are with him in the conference room. She gives them periodic refills but otherwise leaves them alone. It's easier than it should be, despite her kneejerk reaction to corrupt cops; she spent the night before staring at her ceiling, listening to Foggy roll over in the next room, watching the sunrise crawl across her walls until she could get up.

It was another morning for strong coffee.

The phone rings, and it's the office phone, so she grabs it and says "You've reached the offices of Nelson and Murdock. How may I help you?"

Silence.

A horrible feeling comes over Karen, fear mixed with dread. There's also an odd, almost exhilarating sense of relief, because here it is. Here's the awful thing she's been waiting for. It's at her doorstep and she doesn't have to worry about it anymore.

"You know, it'd be nice if you actually said something," she says.

The door to the conference room opens. "We'll be just a sec," Foggy is saying over his shoulder. "Blind guys, you know, they can't pee on their own. It's awful. Have you ever seen a blind guy pee? Crazy."

Matt makes a beeline for Karen.

"Keep them on the line," he says in a low voice, hovering over her shoulder. Foggy comes to her other side, an impromptu war council right there at her desk.

"What do you want?" Karen asks into the phone.

Silence.

"Who are you?"

Silence.

"Fisk?" she asks. Foggy sucks in a breath. She can feel her heart pounding, her palms getting sticky with sweat.

There's still no response, but then she hears a tell-tale click, the other person hanging up.

Karen puts the phone back on the hook. Foggy watches the movement with a troubled expression, but Matt isn't paying attention at all, staring into space with that distant, far-off look he gets sometimes.

"So that happened," Karen says. She very graciously does not add _I told you so_.

"They called you on the office phone," Foggy says. "That's new. That's... concerning."

"But not unexpected," Matt replies. "If they knew her cell number, they obviously knew who she was, where she worked. And this is a classic escalation tactic. Scare her at home, then scare her at the office. Nowhere is safe."

Foggy makes a frantic shushing gesture, but she's honestly too keyed up to be frightened. Or maybe she's both. She's been both a lot over the past few months. Her fight-or-flight wires have been crossed so many times they're permanently frazzled. "I could try tracing it," she offers. "But something tells me it'll be the same as before."

"You're probably right," Matt says. His cane starts tapping.

"Did you hear anything?" Foggy asks. "Anything in the background of the call?"

Karen assumes he's talking to her, so she shakes her head, but Matt is the one who answers. "Wind. Voices murmuring, but not enough to make out any words. More like the hum of background conversation than anything relevant. And it was cold," he adds. "I could hear snowflakes landing on the receiver."

Karen gapes at him.

"Uh," Foggy says quickly. "Good guesses! Those are very good guesses, Matt."

"Very _specific_ guesses," Karen corrects, looking back and forth between them. Bird wings are one thing, but snowflakes falling on a phone are a whole new realm of unbelievable. "Do you know who's calling me, Matt?"

"No."

"Do you have any _guesses_?"

Matt is quiet for a moment, and when she tries to look into his eyes, she only sees her own reflection in his shades. He's like a completely different person than the one she talked to in his apartment. Closed-off, uncommunicative, absorbing everything, revealing nothing. Sometimes she finds it romantic, mysterious. Sometimes, like now, she just finds it frustrating.

"It isn't Fisk," he says at length. "At least not directly. I couldn't hear anything that sounded like a prison yard, and it isn't snowing at Rikers. So if he's really the one harassing you, he's doing it through an intermediary."

"Like that guy?" Foggy asks. "The one Hoffman told us about? The one who hired us way back when?"

"Wesley," Matt says. "James Wesley."

Her stomach clenches.

"We should call Rikers," Foggy says. "Check to see if Fisk is allowed visitors, phone calls, that kind of thing. If we can make a case for harassment - "

"It might not matter," Matt says. "Wesley might already have his orders. Even if we cut off his access to Fisk - "

"What if it isn't him?" Karen asks. They both pause, and she can tell she's surprised them, but she barrels on. "What if it isn't Wesley? Couldn't it be someone else?"

Matt digests this, rolling his cane between his palms in a thinking gesture. "It could," he allows. "But we know Wesley is Fisk's number two. Even if he isn't the one making the calls, he probably hired the guy who is. I think we should track him down. Ask him some questions. He's our best shot at blowing this thing wide open."

"Great!" Foggy says. He looks at Karen and seems to reconsider. "Well, not great. But better? At least we have a lead."

"Yeah," Karen says, tongue thick in her mouth. "Yeah."

They stay at her desk a few more minutes, lobbying ideas back and forth, until she tells them she needs the restroom. Nelson and Murdock doesn't have one of its own, so she has to leave the office and climb a set of stairs to reach the public facilities. She gets inside and closes the door behind her. She enters a stall and closes that door behind her too.

Then, and only then, does she throw up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE AND REVIEWS. :D Just a couple of notes about this fic before we keep going:
> 
> 1: My main goal, besides moving the plot along, is to give each relationship - Matt/Karen, Foggy/Karen, and Matt/Foggy - equal amounts of development and importance, so if it ever feels like I'm failing on that or favoring one relationship in particular, feel free to let me know.
> 
> 2: I'm a big fan of "warts and all" characterization, so I should warn everyone in advance that the journey to polyamory won't be smooth. They're gonna bring all their secrets and flaws and hang-ups to the table, because they're my idiot children, and that's why I love them.
> 
> 3: This fic won't feature sexual assault. I had someone ask about it, and I realized, belatedly, that the clues I'm dropping about Karen's backstory could definitely be read as such, so I'd just like to say now that she wasn't raped, and rape won't play a role in this fic in any way.
> 
> I think that's it! Thanks again to everyone leaving comments and kudos. I'm also at [Tumblr](http://lettherebedaisy.tumblr.com) if you want to come die about the OT3 with me.

She has to tell them.

The knowledge is eating away at her, so much so that she's started to flinch at strange noises and the press of a crowd at a crosswalk. Every time her phone buzzes in her hand, she wonders if she's about to be threatened again. Every time Matt or Foggy walks into a room, she thinks one of them is about to open their mouth and say _Karen, we just found out that Wesley is dead, and long blonde hairs were discovered at the scene_.

Is his body still in the warehouse? Did she really get all of her DNA off that table? What exactly are the boys going to unearth when they start poking around?

If Karen left just a scrap of evidence behind - a fingerprint, a fiber, a grainy picture of herself on a security feed - Matt and Foggy are going to find it.

She doesn't know which is worse, imagining Foggy's betrayed face or Matt's lack of surprise.

_There's been something in your voice..._

She has to tell them.

The door to the office opens, and Matt comes inside backwards, shaking his coat. It's raining again, and every tink on the roof is another jolt to her nerves. She'd actually snapped at Foggy earlier, and this was after he spent yet another night on her couch, guarding her against a man she knew for a fact wasn't coming after her. What the hell is she doing? What the hell is she _doing?_

"Morning," Matt says.

"Morning," she replies, as he turns. "Can I get you some - Jesus Christ!"

Matt's left eye is entirely black and blue.

"What happened?" she demands, pushing up from her chair and rounding on him. He's shaking his head before she even reaches him.

"It's nothing," he says. "I slipped in the rain last night."

Foggy comes out of their tiny kitchen with a mug in hand. He doesn't say anything, just stands there and watches Matt with an unreadable expression.

"Did you slip in front of a _semi?_ " Karen asks, a bit shrilly, but _Christ_. His face looks absolutely horrible, and she can't even see it all, just the bruising that creeps out from under his shades and down his cheek. She reaches out without thinking, to tilt his head and get a better look, but she catches herself just before her fingers make contact with his skin.

She's very much aware of Foggy in her peripheral vision.

"Why didn't you call one of us?" she asks, hastily drawing her hand back. "We could've helped - Foggy said he helps you in the rain all the time - "

"Yeah, Matt," Foggy says. He still hasn't moved. "Why didn't you call me?"

Matt presses his lips together. "It looks worse than it is, guys. It's not a big deal. I wouldn't say no to some ice, though." He directs the last statement to Karen, and of course she can't refuse him, so she goes to the kitchen and wraps a few ice cubes in a coffee filter, because they don't have any paper towels. She wonders if she should dash to the store and get some medicated cream or something. She wonders if Matt would let her.

When she leaves the kitchen, she discovers that Matt and Foggy have moved themselves to the conference room, Foggy's hand gripping Matt's elbow. He's saying something in a low, serious tone, but Matt raises his head as soon as Karen crosses the threshold, and Foggy stops speaking.

"What?" she asks. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Foggy says, too quickly.

Her heart starts to pound. _Long blonde hairs at the scene..._

"I want to know," she insists.

"It's - uhhh - " Foggy lets the sound linger, rocking on his heels. "Well, it's a funny story, actually - "

"It's about Wesley," Matt cuts in.

And just like that, her blood is a roar in her ears.

_Karen, he's dead. Karen, I know you did it. Karen, how could you._

"He's gone AWOL," Matt says, and for a moment she doesn't even process the words, the relief is so great. Her hands are limp as Matt helps himself to the ice pack. "No one has seen him since Fisk's arrest," he continues, "so rumor has it that he's dead, but another theory is that he's gone underground, maybe on Fisk's orders. We'll have to root him out if we want to find out what Fisk is up to."

"Any ideas how to do that?" Foggy asks.

"There are some people I can talk to," Matt replies.

Is this her moment? She should say it. Just open her mouth and say it.

"So Wesley is in hiding," Foggy muses. "He's somewhere snowy, and he's getting orders from Fisk to enact the plot of Scream. Am I the only one wondering _why?_ Why Karen? If he's angry at anyone, it should be me and you, Matt. We're the names actually on the docket."

"We didn't meet with his mother, though," Matt says. "If he's out for revenge - "

"Wait, what?" Foggy asks.

Nausea rises in her stomach like an old friend. "If Fisk knew about our meeting," she says, "wouldn't I already be dead?"

" _What_?" Foggy asks. "Can we just take a moment here? What are you talking about? You visited his _mother?_ "

"With Ben," Karen says. It's been weeks now, but speaking his name still isn't any easier. "We went to the nursing home where she was staying. That's how we found out about Fisk killing his father."

"Are you serious?" Foggy asks. "You visited Darth Vader's mom?"

Matt rubs an ice cube between his fingers. "Karen, think back," he says. "Is there any possibility someone saw you? That somehow word got back to Fisk?"

_Yes. No._ He hadn't been aware of her visit, that was the thing. Karen remembers the moment she'd realized as much, the jolt of electricity that shot through her entire body when Wesley let slip that Fisk would be disturbed "if he knew you'd found her." _You haven't told him_ , Karen had said. And then a part of her had instantly, instinctively known Wesley had to die.

"Karen?" Matt prompts. She clears her throat.

"I don't know. I don't think so. I was careful, but I guess anything is possible."

_Tell them_ , her mind is screaming. _Tell them!_ She'll never get a better moment than this. They're barking up the wrong tree entirely; they're devoting all their energy to looking for Wesley while the real caller is still out there. There is absolutely no logical reason she should still be keeping this a secret -

Except she can still see Wesley in her mind, the way his body jerked, bullet after bullet pumping into his chest -

Except Daniel's blood is still a stain on her carpet that she can't remove -

Except for some reason, when she thinks about secrets, her mind conjures up the image of Matt and Foggy, heads bent together, shutting her out.

There's more discussion, an exchanging of ideas on where Wesley could be, what kind of orders he's under. They spin some theories. They talk about precautions they should take for Karen's safety. Karen nods and accepts their suggestions and even cracks a smile at one of Foggy's jokes.

And she plans. She watches the two of them, the space between them heavy with things they aren't saying, and she plans.

*

Her first call is to the docks.

"Hello," she says. "My name is Rhonda Moore. I'm the regional supervisor for OSHA, and I need to speak with someone about the results of our inspection last week."

"Inspection?" asks a wary voice on the other end of the line. "I don't know anything about an inspection."

"We came last Friday," Karen prompts. "We looked in your warehouses and found an infestation of rodents - "

"Lady, we haven't had any inspections. And we sure as hell don't have any rats. All our units get cleaned once a week. I see to it myself."

Karen very carefully exhales, hair fanning out from her face. "I'm sorry," she says. "I must have called the wrong harbor."

"You think?" the guy asks, and hangs up on her.

A waitress comes by with a pitcher of tea, but Karen waves her off, mind racing at a million miles an hour. Dead bodies start to smell after a few days. Even if the guy is lying about personally inspecting the warehouses - even if he delegated the task to his underlings - the odds are incredibly small that a rotting corpse could go undetected during weekly cleanings. They would've found it eventually. They would've called the cops. And Karen has been keeping an ear out for any John Does found dead at the docks.

She makes a second call with slightly higher spirits.

"Hello," she says. "My name is Cecilia Strong. I'm calling about the insurance of one of your residents."

"We aren't allowed to talk about that over the phone," says a bored female voice. "You'll have to come in with paperwork and proper ID."

"Of course," Karen says, instantly re-adjusting her strategy. "It's just - well - " She makes herself laugh, a self-deprecating sound. "This is actually kinda stupid, but it's my first week on the job, and I think I might have deleted some files when I was messing around with our software - "

"You'll have to come in," the girl repeats, still sounding bored.

Karen unclenches her jaw. "I was just wondering if you could tell me - "

"Not over the phone."

She works her jaw until it pops, releasing some of the tension. "Okay," Karen says. "Here's the deal. I'm not an insurance agent. I'm a private detective." She pauses, to let that sink in, and then she continues. "One of your residents is being investigated for possible ties to criminal activity - more specifically, for drug trafficking. Her daughter is coming in and using _your_ rooms on _your_ property to store methamphetamine. Is the DA going to believe that you knew nothing about it? Maybe. Maybe you can cry on the stand and _swear_ that you were just an underpaid receptionist. I'm thinking you'll get an aggressive prosecutor, though. The kind that seeks felony accomplice charges for people who take advantage of little old ladies. How's your prison slang?"

There's a long, long silence on the other end of the line.

"What did you want to know?" the girl asks.

Karen doesn't smile, because that would be wrong. "Just tell me who's been visiting Marlene Vistain."

There's the sound of typing, and then the girl says, "We don't have those records anymore. She was removed from the facility weeks ago."

" _Removed?_ " Karen repeats.

"Yep. Her son came in and checked her out for good." The girl pauses. "Hey, there's no daughter listed here - "

"Thanks," Karen says hurriedly, and hangs up.

Then she spends a long time staring out the window.

She's always known she got Ben killed. It's a weight that sits in her heart like a stone. She pushed him into the story, she railroaded over his objections, she poked and prodded and coaxed and persuaded and even insulted him a few times to get him riled up and ready to fight. His blood is on her hands. She knows it.

But laying out the facts brings a whole new chill to her bones.

She and Ben visited Marlene. He was killed shortly after that. Marlene was checked out during the same timeframe.

If she hadn't -

If she'd just been more _careful_ -

Karen watches rain streak down the windows. The restaurant is warm and lively and packed with people. She doesn't feel connected to a single one of them.

It all comes down to Fisk. Matt said that once, and she sees the truth of it now. All the death, the destruction, the bombs, Daniel, Elena, Ben, even Wesley - it all comes down to Fisk, him and his massive spiderweb, with the rest of Hell's Kitchen caught in the stickiness.

Karen stares down at her phone.

Then she picks it up and makes one more call.

*

" - really think we should tell her," Foggy is saying, when she returns to the office.

She pauses in the hallway outside the door. It's closed, but their walls are so thin they frequently hear the hustle and bustle of other businesses on their floor, and Foggy isn't making any attempt to be quiet.

"We've talked about this," Matt says. "It's better that she doesn't know."

"Better for her or better for you?"

Matt lets out an exasperated huff. "That isn't fair."

"Nothing in this entire miserable situation is _fair_."

"I know it bothers you - "

"Bothers me?" Foggy says incredulously. His chair squeaks. "I'm only lying to someone I care quite a lot about. I'm only listening to her toss and turn every night and feeling like the biggest jerk in the universe for carrying around this secret. This isn't sustainable, Matt. Something's gotta give."

Karen is aware that she's barely breathing. She finds herself straining towards the door in her eagerness, but then her coat shifts around her knees, and she freezes. Matt can hear snowflakes falling from miles away. Can he hear the whisper of her clothes? The sound of her throat swallowing?

The beating of her heart?

"There are things I haven't told you," Matt says. If he can hear her lurking in the hallway, he doesn't give any indication of it. "About what I do, what it means to be around me. You have to trust me, Foggy. Telling her about all of this will only put her in more danger - "

"She's in danger now!" Foggy insists. "She's got a bullseye on her back, and if you think for one second that she wouldn't be reassured by the fact you're D - "

"You're not," Matt interrupts.

"What?"

"Reassured."

Foggy is silent.

"There's no use denying it," Matt says quietly. "I can hear it in your voice. You were happier before you knew, Foggy."

There's another squeak, like Foggy leaning forward in his chair. "You know what?" he asks. "You're right. I was happier before I knew just how crazy you were. But here's something else you can chew on: I've worried about you every single day since we met. You do a really shit job of taking care of yourself, Murdock. Always have. So I decided to do it for you. I'd watch out for the pot holes, the inaccessible buildings, all of that. Tell me if I'm lying." He pauses, expectant, and when Matt doesn't say anything, he continues. "Look, I'm not - _pleased_ that you're going out and getting beat up by Russian gangsters. But it's par for the course in my world, all right? Worry and terror, that's the Nelson way. And at least now I know you can defend yourself against whatever life throws at you. That's not nothing."

Matt's voice is just slightly unsteady. "You shouldn't worry about me that much."

"Well, I do," Foggy replies. "Tough."

Still hunched in the hallway like a gargoyle, Karen's calf muscles choose that moment to cramp. When she reaches down, unthinkingly, her notepad falls out of her purse and clatters to the floor.

All noises from the office cease.

Karen grabs her stuff and breezes through the door, smile firmly on. "Hey, guys," she says. "How was your lunch?"

"Oh, very productive," Foggy says, spinning around in his chair and beaming at her. His eyes are just a little red. "Mr. Miller's in trouble again."

"Really?"

"Yeah, the idiot got himself thrown in jail."

"No way," Karen says, with too much enthusiasm. God, for all the pretending she does, you'd think she'd be better at it.

"He violated the terms of his bail agreement by contacting one of the witnesses," Foggy explains, shrugging. "We can lead our clients to water, but we can't make them drink the sweet nectar of our defense."

"That's disgusting, Foggy," Matt remarks. Almost against her will, Karen's eyes are drawn to him.

He's standing in the doorway that leads to the conference room, dark suit, dark shades, massive bruise on his face. He doesn't look any different than a few hours ago, but somehow Karen feels different just by looking at him. It's the knowledge that they're both carrying secrets, she thinks. Dead lieutenants. Russian gangsters. They're liars skirting around each other in an office much too small.

_You were happier before you knew._

He's keeping something from her. But he's also trying to protect her.

_If you think for one second that she wouldn't be reassured by the fact you're D -_

"Okay," Foggy says, dumping a file folder on the desk with a dramatic thump. "Let's do rock-paper-scissors for who has to go and deal with Mr. Miller again."

"I can't," Matt says. "I've got an appointment with the judge in an hour."

"What? Seriously? Because I just scheduled an interview with one of the guys at the precinct."

"Can you cancel?"

"Can _you_ cancel?"

"You want me to blow off a judge?"

"Wait, is this really happening?" Foggy asks. "Have we actually reached the point where there's too much work for both of us to do? Where our services are so in demand that we have to juggle responsibilities? This is amazing."

"I can visit Mr. Miller," Karen offers.

Foggy's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. She tries to look casual. "Uh," he says. "I guess - I mean, that isn't technically illegal - "

"I won't give him any legal advice," she says. "Just talk to him about his options."

Matt's brow is furrowed, his black eye looking starker than ever under the light. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he says slowly. "At the very least one of us should go with you."

"You can't," Karen points out. "You're too busy." Her heart is pumping so fast it's almost painful, and she prays it isn't giving her away, that Matt isn't hearing tiny tremors in her voice or the pulse in her throat. "I'll be fine, anyway. It's just a prison visit. Guards will be there the entire time."

Foggy has joined the furrowed brow party. She realizes all at once that she overshot the mark; during one of their many sleepovers, she'd confessed to him that she doesn't feel comfortable around prison guards anymore, not after one tried to strangle her.

But Foggy doesn't give her away. He doesn't object at all. She looks at him, and he looks back, and she knows that he knows that she knows, but he doesn't say a word.

It occurs to her that Foggy is just as willing to keep her secrets as he is Matt's.

She doesn't know what that means.

"Okay," Matt says, breaking the silence. "If you're willing to go, Karen, that will really help us. But please be careful."

She grabs the file folder and heads out. Foggy trails behind her, and she thinks for a moment that he might take her aside and say something after all, but all he does is hold open her coat and ask her to text them once she reaches the prison. She makes all the appropriate promises and eventually squeezes out the door.

She could swear she feels Matt's gaze on her back as she leaves, but of course that's ridiculous.

*

The prison is as gray as the storm clouds above it. It's also a lot bigger and more bureaucratic; she's shuttled around the facility in three different buses and made to wait in about six lines before she even reaches the registration desk. She has to take off her shoes to go through a series of metal detectors. Signs yell at her from every direction, promising dire fates if she's carrying contraband. She's extremely conscious of the other visitors side-eyeing her nice clothes and purse.

She finally reaches the registration desk and hands over her ID with a shaking hand. No alias. No going back now.

"Miss Page?" a guard asks from behind her. When she turns around, she sees a slim man with shined shoes and a gun clipped to his belt. "If you'll just come with me."

"Where?" she asks.

He doesn't acknowledge the question. "This way," he says, and turns and walks down the hall, not looking back to see if she follows. She has a split second to decide if she's going with him.

The last time she was behind bars, she was suspected of murder.

The last time she was behind bars, it wasn't true.

Karen follows the guard.

He leads her through a series of byzantine hallways with closed doors at every turn. Everything is static, gray, unwelcoming. They pass a few people at first and then none at all. She wonders if she's being shepherded to somewhere quiet so they can kill her without making a fuss. Did she call too soon? Should she have dropped in unannounced, so they wouldn't have time to plan her grisly death?

The guard finally stops in front of a steel door and stands at attention beside it. Military, she realizes belatedly.

"He's waiting for you," he says. Karen takes a deep, steadying breath and pushes open the door

It shouldn't surprise her that Wilson Fisk has wrangled a private room for visitors, but somehow it does anyway.

He's standing, facing the opposite wall, hands cuffed behind his back. He's wearing a bright orange prisoner's uniform, and the color of it is garish, almost eye-watering after all the monotone. When he speaks, his voice has a rasping quality to it.

"Miss Page."

"Fisk."

He turns a little at the rudeness, his head tilting just slightly in her direction, but she doesn't apologize.

"I was surprised to hear," he says, his words weighted and measured, "that you wished to visit me."

She hesitates, then walks over to the visitor's table in the middle of the room. She smooths her skirt as she sits. "So you know who I am," she says. Her voice is calm.

"You've been on my radar for quite awhile," Fisk says to the wall. Then he turns, looking at her directly for the first time, and even though it doesn't _seem_ like he should be intimidating, even though he's in a prisoner uniform and completely unarmed, there's still something dangerous about him, some kind of inherent, unsettling quality to his features that puts her on edge.

Karen looks at him with as much coolness as she can muster. "I've been watching you too. The view was pretty great when you were finally caught."

It's his eyes, she realizes. His eyes are like flints that show no emotion at all. "Is there a reason you've come to see me?"

"Information," she says. "I have some. I want some. I thought we could make a deal."

The look he gives her is considering, reminding her for all the world of Wesley, the way his eyes had flicked over her whenever she talked back to him, like he was re-evaluating her at every turn. "That's a very dangerous proposition," Fisk says at length. "I'm not sure you're ready for it."

Karen's lips twist into a smile. "I thought you said you knew me."

"I do," Fisk replies. "I know exactly who you are. Do you?"

_It all comes down to Fisk_ , Matt had said.

_The second step is figuring out how to make him stop_ , Doris had said.

"Yeah," Karen says, looking Wilson Fisk right in the eye. "I'm the one who killed Wesley."


End file.
